


Für Immer Verloren

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1930s, Assassins & Hitmen, Film Noir, Gen, Historical, Politics, Psychic Abilities, Spies & Secret Agents, Weimar Germany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-10
Updated: 2009-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In early 1932, Crawford and Schuldig seek a missing boy in Berlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Für Immer Verloren

**Author's Note:**

> Crossed over with _M_ , Fritz Lang's [1931 film](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M_\(1931_film\)) about the search for a murderer. The events of _M_ take place in the autumn of a year before 1932 – I've moved them up to the spring of 1932. There are some direct quotes from the film: the newspaper boys' calls, the murderer's letter to the papers and the reward poster.
> 
> The candidates in the German 1932 elections: 
> 
> Ernst Thälmann - Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands (KPD)  
> Adolf Hitler - Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP)  
> [associated groups: HJ – Hitler Jugend (Hitler Youth); SA – Sturmabteilung (Stormtroopers)]  
> Paul von Hindenburg – Independent. (The elderly incumbent president of Germany, running for re-election in 1932 as a candidate of enough stature to oppose Hitler's candidacy).
> 
>  
> 
> Originally written for the lj community weisskreuznoir.
> 
> Contains inexplicit references to past child abuse.
> 
> Many thanks to Puddingcat for her very speedy and thorough beta, and to indelicateink for her beautiful picture!

_The boy is gone. No one seems to know even the day he broke out. Schmidt found the house empty on Monday, Glasheim and Steiner both dead. Steiner was luckier, Schmidt says his neck was broken cleanly, he was found sitting in an armchair, one of his damn detective novels still in his hand and a cup of coffee on the table beside him. It points to an evening escape. Glasheim looked like he died over a period of hours, every bone in his body broken. What was left of his genitals - Schmidt says he never wanted to see such a sight. It seems the rumours about the fool's preferences were true, and he provoked this occurrence. No one had checked up on the boy since Thursday – he could have escaped that night. He could have almost a five day lead – Schmidt is panicking, as well he might. If this news gets out we're all dead men. Don't think we won't take you down with us. I await instructions._

_\- Dreher_

_Your panic does you no favours. The boy will stand out in ordinary society, people will remember seeing a Japanese boy. He will try to avoid places where people will easily remember him, but he must eat, and is a stranger to the city. He will frequent cheap cafes, or try to steal food when his money runs out. In either case, he runs the risk of being sighted. What we need is an operative who can carry out unobtrusive surveillance of what the herd remembers. I know of such an operative, already in place to garner sensitive information for blackmail. I will alert him. You, do something useful for once and remember we_ can _know what people will do ahead of time. Be sensible and use your connections to bring in someone who doesn't know the politics involved in Berlin. Send Crawford._

_Threaten me again and that wife and family you think you've hidden will regret it._

_\- Kortig_

 

Crawford sat at a table near the front of the dingy café, sipping the worst champagne he had ever had cause to drink. It was warm, almost completely flat and left a strange sour taste in his mouth. The café looked quite different by night – he had passed it during the day and it had held but a few customers, all drinking the coffee and eating the bread it sold during the hours of brightness, trying to survive by attracting a more wholesome clientele. Its decorations were gaudy and cheap in sunlight, the more salacious of them hidden from view with hastily tacked up sheets. By night the dim lighting and the air of expectation made it look almost glamorous, in a jaded, affected manner. Waiters rushed from table to table, offering food – expensive and often inedible – and drink, which was cheaper and at least was likely to leave him with only a hangover rather than a case of food poisoning. He caught the eye of one of the waiters, a slender, dark-eyed boy who would be quite ruined within a year – Crawford idly wondered if he should recommend a specialist doctor – and beckoned him over.

"A gin and tonic water, please. And a packet of cigarettes." There was no point specifying which brand. The café bought what was cheapest and sold them at a premium. He wished he had thought to bring another pack of his Lucky Strikes from the hotel.

"Yes, sir," the waiter said, and was gone with the words still sounding in Crawford's ear. He was back quickly, setting the drink neatly in front of Crawford, along with a fresh ashtray and the cigarettes. He let his fingers touch Crawford's hand, with the slightest shy smile. It was a good smile, Crawford thought, putting a few banknotes on the boy's tray. Natural looking, almost indistinguishable from the real thing. 

"Keep the change," he said, and opened the packet. Cheap shit, he thought, and lit up. The gin was somewhat more drinkable than the champagne. At least it was stronger. It was past time for his contact to show up. He had better have a reason for – Crawford sat straighter. He was about to arrive, he could feel it. Finally. The man could have picked a better location than this dive, he thought in irritation. Local colour was all very well, but Crawford had had enough of bad alcohol and pretty, syphilitic boys.

The compere stepped up on the small stage, lit in a brilliant spotlight, his brillantined hair gleaming like glass. "Meinen Damen!" he cried, bowing to the elaborately begowned men sitting at one table, their glass and paste jewels looking well enough at night, "Meinen Herren!" he gestured to the rest of the patrons. "Fresh from the clubs of Paris, may I present to you, La Nouvelle Arletty!"

There was some desultory applause and a figure dressed in a scarlet, glittering gown walked lightly onto the stage, ignoring the audience. The scarlet of the gown clashed hideously with the long, immaculately waved hair, as bright as new copper. The figure turned to survey the audience with a bored air, stage make-up clearing all expression from the face. While not in any way heavily built, the breadth of the shoulders made it clear this was no woman.

"Messieurs," he said in a low, nasal voice. "Bienvenue." 

The music started up and he began to sing in French, a song no doubt filled with cheating men and tragedy, given Crawford's experience. He didn't particularly care what the song was about, as he was engaged at that moment in signalling to the pretty waiter to attend him at once.

"Another gin," he snapped, not taking his eyes from the figure on the stage. "A double."

He really didn't see how anyone expected him to do his work if this was the sort of person he was to be teamed with.

* * *

"So you are Crawford," his contact said, sitting back in the chair opposite, his legs crossed like a woman, the smooth, hairless flesh quite visible through the slit up the side of the gown. "You're tall."

"I'm hungry, tired and bored," Crawford said. "It's almost four in the morning, for God's sake. Why didn't you just arrange to meet at a more civilised time and place?"

"This is civilised," his contact said, gesturing with one long nailed hand. "Hedonistic pleasure is a mark of the pinnacle of civilisation, just as we tip over the edge isn't it? Rome didn't fall in a day, as the saying goes." He smiled at his own wit, and took a long, satisfied pull on the Gauloise in his ebony cigarette holder. "Besides, you were so nicely annoyed by it all, I could scarcely keep from laughing."

Crawford forced his irritation under control. The man was a telepath; he'd known that before meeting. There was no need to provide a spectacle for him. "I can hardly call you "Arletty"," he said. "What's your name?"

"Call me Schuldig," the man said, stubbing the butt of the cigarette out and lighting a fresh one. "That's what they call me in the _naughtier_ clubs. It's also what you'll find me referred to in reports to our superiors." He looked round and called a waiter over – not the boy from earlier, Crawford saw. "He's long since gone," Schuldig grinned. "If one wealthy-looking foreign patron isn't going to proposition him, there's always another to bat his eyelashes at." He turned to the waiter. "Hänschen, be a dear and bring us some food, would you? Not the shit on the menu."

"Do my best," the waiter said. He looked sidelong at Crawford and gave Schuldig a wink as he left.

"Jesus," Crawford muttered. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache build. "I'd have preferred a lunchtime meeting."

"I was barely awake at lunchtime," Schuldig said airily. "Welcome to my schedule, Crawford. Are you ever going to get to business?"

"Not here, I'm not," Crawford said.

"Fine. I'm finished for tonight anyway – normally I wouldn't be, but orders are orders, nicht wahr? Come and watch me change, maybe the view will lift your spirits." He stood up and sashayed off, leaving Crawford to follow or not as he would. Out of the main room they went and down a narrow corridor packed tight with boxes and broken chairs. Schuldig called out as he saw the waiter again, "Hans! We'll be in the dressing room, all right? Even a few sandwiches, that'll be fine!" He opened a door and sailed in, leaving Crawford to turn on the light and close the door behind them.

" _God_ ," Schuldig said, shading his eyes. "Do you _have_ to?"

"I believe in seeing things as they are," Crawford said, looking round grimly. No doubt in dimmer light the dressing room would have an air of seedy glamour, with its fittings of brass and dark wood. A richly soft, wine-coloured velvet robe was flung over a straight-backed chair in front of a dressing table, a low couch was covered in a green and gold brocade that looked as if candlelight would make its colours glow. A large feather fan rested on top of the mirror, the eyes of the peacock feathers iridescent and compelling. In the harsh light from the bare bulb overhead it all looked simply tired and washed out, as, Crawford now saw, did Schuldig.

"Sit," Schuldig said, and sank down on the straight-backed chair. He kicked off the high-heeled shoes that had added to his stage presence, and rubbed at his ankles, his eyes closed. "I'm so tired," he said, his voice quiet as if he were speaking only to himself. "Keep your disapproval a little quieter, Crawford." With a sigh he swivelled round to face the mirror, and began removing hairpins, dropping them one by one into a small dish. Finally he put his hands carefully in his hair and lifted the wig from his head, taking it to the side of the room, where Crawford now saw a wig stand waiting.

"I knew it was a wig," Crawford said.

Schuldig gave him a look that combined both amusement and contempt. "Of course it's a wig. How long do you think it would take to grow hair to this length?" He scrubbed his fingers energetically through his own short hair – hair that was, Crawford saw, exactly the colour of the wig. "Quite right," Schuldig said. "You wouldn't believe how long it took to find or the cost involved." He sat at the dressing table again and carefully brushed his hair into order, becoming at once a confusing figure – a far more respectable looking fellow, if it hadn't been for the dress and make-up. "I'm touched you were thinking about the colour of my hair," he said, smiling evilly.

"Don't read my mind," Crawford said as there was a knock on the door and Hans, the waiter, looked in. 

"How sad, everyone is still dressed," he said with a smile. "Cheese sandwiches, chicken that the owner thinks no one knows about and a couple of boiled eggs. Sorry it's not more." 

"You're a pet," Schuldig said. "And beers – Hans, if my heart didn't pine after that sheikh who abandoned me so cruelly in the desert, you would be my ideal man."

Hans laughed, his eyes not leaving Schuldig's face. "I'd better get back to serving," he said. "Have a good night."

"Bye," Schuldig said cheerfully, waving as he left. He grabbed up a sandwich and held the plate out. "Real food, Crawford. A rare beast in this place."

Crawford reluctantly took the sandwich. It seemed all right, and he couldn't foresee any dangers from eating it. "That man's in love with you," he said distrustfully.

"And I didn't even have to influence his thoughts in any way," Schuldig mumbled through a mouth of bread and cheese. He put the sandwich down on the dressing table, sat down again and opened a pot of cold cream, slathering it over his face before wiping it and the make up off with a piece of cotton wool. He was younger under the thick make up than Crawford had expected, his face unlined and clear. "So, what's the job?" Schuldig said.

"The _job_ ," Crawford said, "is a simple retrieval. Your singing talents, such as they are, will not be required."

"A simple retrieval of _what?_ " Schuldig said. "Why are you so unpleasant? We are colleagues, aren't we? Do you dislike me that much on first sight?" He met Crawford's eyes in the mirror. "I'm doing you the courtesy of staying out of your mind and leaving you the illusion that you could keep me out if you tried. I'd like to hear you actually say it."

Crawford didn't look away. "I was called on short notice from London. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. I was told I was meeting an operative on vital surveillance duty, a high ranked telepath. _Something_ in the air in Berlin at this time is making me feel ill and giving me a continual mild headache that late nights and out-of-key singing exacerbates. And I find you slumming in a homosexual meeting-place, dressed in a way that can only be described as vulgar and low. This is beneath you, and beneath our mission."

Schuldig turned to look him in the face, then pulled open a drawer, taking out a small bottle. He crossed the room to press it into Crawford's hand. "Sorry to be a disappointment," he said. "They're just aspirin." He went back to his chair and finished cleaning his face. "There are elections this year," he said. "Votes to be lost and gained. Our people have their preferred candidate, you know that. I – and I am not alone – have been detailed to find the relatives and friends of people in high places, people whose support can garner votes. They needn't come to these clubs themselves, but if their sons do, their cousins – blackmail might be low and beneath me, Crawford, but it can be highly effective." He picked up a boiled egg and peeled it. After a careful sniff, he took a bite, shrugged, and ate it quickly. "The right party must get into power. Do you really want a swing towards communism?"

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a political thinker," Crawford said.

"I? I have no politics, none at all." Schuldig smiled thinly at him. "I was told you are a clairvoyant. Let me tell you what _I_ foresee: if and when the NSDAP get into power they will close this place down, and all like it, and a little of what makes Berlin _Berlin_ will be gone. You may find it and me vulgar, but there is room for more in life than apple-cheeked, perfect blonds, all cut to the same pattern like a string of damn paper dolls." He gave a little snort of laughter. "Perhaps I do have politics after all. It doesn't matter; I know my duty."

"Schuldig," Crawford said. He had to work with this man, he thought. Like it or not, he had to repair the bad start to their acquaintance. "I have been in a very bad mood all day, ever since I reached Berlin. I should not have implied you were derelict in your duty."

"No," Schuldig said. "You shouldn't. I am, by the way, a homosexual. I will allow you one derogatory comment, after which you may never insult me again."

Crawford supposed he deserved the flat, antagonistic look. "We were both in Rosenkreuz," he said, as neutrally as he could. "I find I have no strong preferences in that regard. I was objecting merely to the surroundings, not to you."

"Ah," Schuldig said as if the secrets of the universe had been opened to him. "You think I could do better. That's awfully sweet of you, Crawford, but I'm specifically set to hunt for those who like vulgarity. So much easier to blackmail. Even in the, let us say _specialized_ demi-monde of the clubs, transvestism is seen as something to be looked down upon. People who come here risk a lot, if they are wealthy or powerful in their daytime lives." His smile was more genuine, Crawford saw. "We're both tired, and I have to say, even without my abilities I knew you hated the place from the moment I saw you. I was not kindly predisposed towards you. There, now. We have both danced around our apologies like men, let's get to business. Eat that egg, it's quite safe. What are we to look for?" 

"A fifteen year old boy," Crawford said, peeling his egg. "He was moved from Rosenkreuz within the last two weeks and brought to Berlin. He is now missing."

"A boy," Schuldig said. "I hope he's pretty. More to the point, what can he do and why was he brought here?"

"A telekinetic, so I was told," Crawford said. "I was given no information as to why he was brought to Berlin – what I was told was that he, working alone or in conjunction with others, killed the men set to guard him and has run. He does not know the city and his German will probably have a discernable accent - he is Japanese. The limited information I was able to gather in the time I had before leaving London tells me the Japanese ambassador has sons here, though they are young men, not boys. This boy – his name is Naoe, his given name is Nagi – may perhaps have been meant to get close to the ambassador's family in some way. I suspect the ambassador of having links to Eszett."

"It's a big city, Crawford," Schuldig said. "There are more places for a boy to hide – or in which to turn up dead – than we can feasibly cover."

"Nonetheless, we are to find this boy and return him to safe-keeping."

"Well, it's been fun," Schuldig said, looking about the tawdry room, "but orders are orders. I suppose I must give my notice."

* * *

It took till mid-morning before Schuldig and he were properly awake enough to meet again. Crawford went to Schuldig's lodgings, a room in a boarding house and sat with him, where they discussed their task till early evening, Crawford asking for details of where a boy on the run might hide, what work might be available to him.

"Why should he work?" Schuldig said. "If he needs money he can easily kill someone."

"Look at the details of the deaths," Crawford said, passing over a page of his notes. "One was quick, one might say merciful. One looks very much like revenge. He wanted to kill Glasheim, wanted it very much. Steiner he killed because it was necessary for his escape. This is not a death that speaks of ill-will held, it was simply what he had to do. I think he doesn't like killing unless he is given a reason."

"A conclusion that hangs by a thin thread," Schuldig muttered.

"I don't think so. Glasheim's preferences have been rumoured for years. I think the boy would have had reasons to kill him as he did. Steiner? A man who thought only of duty, and saw no need to find personal pleasures outside it; he wouldn't have dreamed of inappropriate behaviour."

"Inappropriate," Schuldig scoffed. "The strong prevail, Crawford – which is why your theory is nonsense. Why would someone this strong have fallen prey to anyone and _need_ revenge?"

"He's strong," Crawford said, lighting one of the American cigarettes he had brought with him. "Yet he is still a boy – even the children trained in Rosenkreuz can long for adult approval and while still inexperienced can be manipulated and left wondering if they were to blame for what attention they receive." He paused, knowing something would happen in the street below, then crossed the room and opened the window. Outside, things appeared calm, ordinary; the street was filled with people heading home to their dinner. Then boys appeared, satchels filled with newspapers.

"Extra! Extra! New crime! Read all about it! Who is the murderer?"

Crowds gathered almost at once, mobbing the boys for the papers. The street was filled with an air of pleasurable horror. Crawford could think of no other word for it, seeing people rich and poor gathering together to mutter and wring their hands.

"What crime is this?" he said.

Schuldig came over, sitting on the window sill and looking down, his eyes a little distant. "Ah," he said. "It's our very own resident ghoul, the bogeyman who eats little children. He must be sad his fame didn't reach you in London, Crawford." A tiny smile began to play on his lips, widening second by second. "How horrified they all are, how much they long for clearer details in the bulletin, so they might turn them over and over in the dark places of their minds."

Crawford shook his shoulder. Telepaths enjoyed the thoughts of others, especially those that could be turned easily to panic and misery, but they had work to do and Schuldig ought not get caught up in a pastime. "Schuldig, what ghoul?"

"Oh," Schuldig said, coming back to himself, "One of those unpleasant ones who likes children a little too much and who doesn't leave much behind for the parents to identify. Eight children so far – well, nine, it seems." He concentrated and nodded. "A girl - one Elsie Beckmann. Lots of lovely vague details for the good people of Berlin to worry themselves into a frenzy about."

"What sort of children?" Crawford said. "Does he go after the poor and homeless? Do we need to worry our lost child could end up in his company?"

"I'm sure little Herr Naoe is once bitten, twice shy," Schuldig said. "Anyway, the killer prefers them a good deal younger." He closed the window, shivering. "It's getting cold out. Not a pleasant night to spend on the streets. He should have waited to run away till the summer." He turned to look at Crawford eagerly. "The missions! He might easily decide a bowl of soup and a bed is worth the sermon." 

"Let's try," Crawford said. "If he hasn't come out of hiding yet he must be getting very tired of sleeping in the cold."

They pulled on their coats and went out into the streets still thronged with people reading the papers. Schuldig fought to maintain a solemn expression as he led the way to the first of the charitable institutions. Some hours later he was no longer smiling, as no trace of the Naoe boy had been discovered anywhere they asked.

"How much money can he have taken with him?" Schuldig groused. "He has to reappear soon, penniless and too full of scruples, if you're right, to do anything except depend on charity."

"We'll try again tomorrow," Crawford said. "Perhaps he'll have sought out a hot meal by then."

"Would he have gone to the Japanese embassy?" Schuldig muttered. "But why would they help him? Does he have anyone in Japan looking for him, I wonder?"

"I'll try to find out," Crawford said. "If he's already on a ship our superiors won't be pleased."

"Find out how long he's been in the care of Rosenkreuz," Schuldig said. "Our task will be harder if he is used to how things work in Europe. We'll be more successful with a confused little foreigner."

"Go home," Crawford said, "and get some sleep. We'll start early tomorrow; you'll need to have given up your nocturnal life." He left Schuldig on the corner and walked back to his hotel in the cold dark, hearing no sound but that of his own feet on the pavements as he walked.

* * *

_Herr Dreher,_

_Initial investigations have proven inconclusive as of the first full day. Naoe has not as yet used any of the church charities that lodge homeless men for the night. Operative Schuldig and I continue the search. Further information would make the search yield faster results. Is the boy familiar with German culture, or can he be seen as having only a bare surface knowledge? Is he sought by any other party – his family, perhaps? This information will help narrow my search._

_\- Crawford_

_To: B. Crawford  
From: E. Dreher_

_Your requests are irrelevant STOP  
Find the lost property and return it within the week FULL STOP_

* * *

Crawford's German was fluent and perfect, but he still missed the full insult hissed behind his back. He turned to see two young men, perhaps seventeen at most, looking at the stall-holder from whom Schuldig was buying fruit in mocking challenge. They looked as out of place in this part of the city as Schuldig would have in his stage costume. Schuldig turned from buying his apples and looked them up and down, clearly evaluating their tan uniforms and carefully shined boots for style.

"Poncy little HJ fags," he said clearly. "They cry when they're given a good, hard fuck, and all just dream of sucking their mothers' tits."

Crawford sighed as the coming all too public confrontation fell into place in his mind, seeing the likely outcome of a fist fight in the street: bodies flung into the fruit-seller's cart and that of the blind toy-seller beside him. Schuldig tossed a coin to the boy working at the fruit stall and came fully about, smiling as the youths glowered and came nearer, violent intent radiating from them for all to see.

"Go. Away," Schuldig said, and they stopped dead, looking pole-axed. He stepped closer and whispered in their ears and then they simply walked off. "Pathetic," he muttered, biting into an apple. "Even for cattle, you'd expect _some_ mental resistance. Have an apple, they're good."

Crawford shook his head. "Let's go, before you attract more attention," he said, glancing at the boy.

"You know, I'm sure Yitzhak doesn't mind that I told them to go," Schuldig said.

"No, Mister, I don't," the boy said, grinning. "How'd you do that?"

"I read minds," Schuldig said, and walked off, laughing at Crawford's annoyance. "What?" he sniggered. "You think he actually believed me?"

"Don't eat in the street, it's – "

"Vulgar, I know. This way - I know someone who offers employment to lost boys. If our boy isn't turning up begging for aid from the churches, maybe he's seeking help from another faith." Schuldig disposed of his apple in quick, enthusiastic bites and flung the core down a drain.

Crawford looked about him at the shop fronts and passers-by, noting the predominance of Jewish names. "Why should you expect cooperation here?"

"I make it my business to have contacts as many places as I can," Schuldig said. "I know people from the clubs who live near here – and I can just take the information I want anyway. Why _shouldn't_ I expect cooperation?" He lifted an eyebrow in amusement.

"You look very Aryan," Crawford said.

"Well, aren't you picking up on the lingo? I told you, I don't have politics. But I _do_ have a sense of style – it would have been aesthetically displeasing to let those thugs stay, and now another little brick in my reputation as not being like _those_ Germans is cemented in."

"You have a reputation for provoking the HJ," Crawford said flatly. "I see. You understand the philosophy of being an undercover operative, don't you?" Schuldig grinned and led him on, skipping at last down the steps into an area below street level. Crawford looked up at the residential building overhead, shaking his head at the posters for communist candidates displayed in some of the windows. Meaningless, he thought. All of it, meaningless. When the world was changed there would be none of this fighting between political philosophies, no irrational hatred of people for their creeds or colours. He followed Schuldig down the steps and through the door left open for him.

" – in Berlin for perhaps a week," Schuldig was saying. "Crawford, this is Moshe Gruen, whom I told you about. Gruen, this is Brad Crawford, my boring American friend. This boy we're looking for – he doesn't know the city, and will need to support himself. I thought that perhaps, not having yet been seen by church charities, he might have come to persons such as you? Being a foreigner he may not understand your mission to help your own people." 

"A Japanese boy? No, that I would have remembered," Gruen said. He pulled a large hard-bound notebook from a shelf. "These are the boys we've dealt with over the last several months. All were Jews – Germans, Poles – " he flipped through the book, " – a couple of Czechoslovakians. No, wait – one Lutheran. He wouldn't say why he couldn't go elsewhere, claimed he was nineteen." He snorted. "Fourteen, perhaps. I felt sorry for him and found him a place."

"Hmm," Schuldig said, looking frustrated. "Let me know, will you? He'll stand out more than your Lutheran."

Crawford looked round the room, a sparse office. He felt a slight amusement at himself, for when Schuldig had spoken of employing lost boys he had assumed a criminal enterprise. _You have read_ Oliver Twist _too many times_ , a voice said within his mind. Schuldig wasn't looking at him, or even smiling, but Crawford could feel the humour, like a touch he couldn't shake off. The newspaper on the desk caught his eye, and he picked it up, his eye drawn to the headlines.

" _The murderer speaks_ ," he murmured, reading on silently. _Because the police have not published my first letter I am writing today directly to the NEWSPAPERS! Continue your investigations. Everything will happen just as I have told you. But I have not yet finished._ He looked up to find them looking at him. "These children you help," he said, "Do they run the risk of meeting a man like this?"

"The ones I help, no," Gruen said. "They are in safe positions, or if I can persuade them to return home, back with their families; but there are plenty of children who come looking for work or the adventure of a big city whom I don't see – many of them end in the sorts of employment they were too innocent to guess could exist. Or they are taken up by the wild boy gangs and become thieves. Or they meet a worse fate with him or others like him." He closed the book. "There are too many young people, and not enough help for them. I started in 1920, when the city was full of orphans; a lot of people wanted to help then, but most have long since stopped." He shook Schuldig's hand. "I'll put the word out, and let you know. Perhaps you're right and he will come to us. God knows it's getting harder for anyone seen as not German enough, let alone someone like him."

"Thanks," Schuldig said and turned away from Crawford so it wasn't clear what he handed over. "I appreciate it." He nodded to Crawford and led the way out again.

"What did you give him?" Crawford asked, when they were back at street level.

"His next couple of weeks' rent."

Crawford reached out to take Schuldig's arm, and managed only by seeing which way he'd move, faster than should have been possible. "You've made _friends_ ," Crawford said accusingly. "You _like_ the people in this city. Are you insane?"

"Let go of my arm," Schuldig said, his tone all business, and Crawford did. "I'm a telepath, Crawford. You know what they say about us, 'one mind away from madness'. I'm hungry, let's get dinner, then we're going out."

"These people are _nothing_ to us," Crawford said, changing to English. He'd been told he'd be paired with someone who spoke English. "Not just the people in this area, so don't look at me like that - why should I care if they're Jewish? - _none_ of the people in Berlin concern us except the boy." Only fools let themselves get attached to the cattle, he thought. Surely Schuldig knew that; surely he hadn't let himself soften and forget what he really was?

"All right," Schuldig said, pointedly still in German. "Now can we get dinner? Don't bother having a bath before we go out, Crawford, you'll want to save the hot water for after, believe me." His smile was cold and hard, distant as if it had been an expression he had never truly used.

Crawford found that reassuring.

* * *

 

"What are we doing?" Crawford said as they stepped down from the bus, his sense of foreboding a mixture of his abilities and the nervous energy Schuldig displayed.

"We're seeing the sights," Schuldig said. He looked Crawford up and down, as he had when they set out. "You'll be fine," he muttered. "Make sure your wallet isn't anywhere easily reachable when you're distracted. Now, we are going to walk from here up Unter den Linden towards the Tiergarten, and we're going to pay attention to the people we pass. Don't worry too much about being obvious; they _want_ to be looked at."

Crawford looked about them as they strolled along, passing people both rich and poor, dressed in furs or threadbare cotton. He glanced up at the trees, glad they were but coming into leaf and not flowering. The mere thought made him take out a handkerchief and stifle a sneeze.

"Cigarette?" Schuldig said, taking out a pack. "The smoke may help clear your airways."

"I'm not smoking in the street," Crawford said. "It's –"

"How obsessed you Americans are with vulgarity," Schuldig said. "Well, I will indulge you." He put the pack away. "What do you think of the scenery?"

"Pretty," Crawford said. "Not as over the top as some of the streets in Salzburg."

"Ah, Salzburg," Schuldig said in nostalgia. "What a depressing place – so lovely because it is not Rosenkreuz, so horrible because Rosenkreuz is so near. And their mushy accent! This, Crawford, this is home, my city." He laughed a little at himself. "By _scenery_ , I meant the boys and girls."

Crawford looked again. There were more young women and boys in their later teenage years simply wandering about than was perhaps to be expected, he thought. Schuldig cast an appraising eye over them as they walked along.

"Many are semi-professionals," he said, "They'd be horrified to think they're _vulgar_ whores; they're just topping up their slender wages – people tell themselves such lies, don't you think? They're not much good to us. Let's start in the Linden Passage, and have a nice cup of coffee." He seized Crawford's arm, pulling him to an entranceway beyond which Crawford could see shops, closed but with bright displays in the windows, and cafes and bars filled with people. Schuldig led him along and smiled wolfishly as a table of people sitting outside a café suddenly gathered their things and left. "Oh, how convenient," Schuldig said, so cheerfully that Crawford had to smile at such an uninhibited use of his ability.

They ordered coffees, Schuldig asking also for a snack of breads and sliced meat, and watched people pass back and forth.

"Mister," a young voice said beside Crawford, "Mister, would you buy a paper?"

He turned to see a thin and dirty boy, no more than ten, a newspaper clutched in his hand. It, and the others beneath his arm, were creased and of varying presses and had obviously been salvaged from the refuse. Schuldig leant forward, a few Pfennigs in his hand.

"You're not going to charge full price for yesterday's paper, are you?"

The boy shook his head, his too-long dark hair falling forward into his face, his eyes on the coins. "Special discount, Mister."

"Good boy. Do you have other things to sell?"

The boy's smile was meant to be alluring, Crawford thought, but looked only tired. "Anything you like, Mister."

"Do you have friends?" Schuldig looked satisfied as the boy nodded. "Good. I want you to find your friends and meet me and _my_ friend at –"

"There's toilets round the corner," the boy said.

Schuldig looked at him seriously. "We'll meet beside them," he said, and reached out and took the boy's chin between his fingers. "You understand? You will gather as many of your friends as you can, and you will meet us at – ah yes, I see where they are – you will meet us at those toilets."

"Yes," the boy said, his eyes drifting out of focus.

"In fifteen minutes."

"In fifteen minutes," the boy repeated.

Schuldig sat back and picked up the plate of bread and meat. "Here. A down payment," he said, sliding the food into the boy's waiting hands. "And here –" he passed over the Pfennig coins. "Go."

Crawford watched him run back out into the street, and looked at Schuldig. "You want to gather information, I hope?"

"Yes, Crawford," Schuldig said with heavy irony. "My tastes don't run in that direction." He sipped at his coffee. "Enjoy your coffee," he said. "Stop looking so disgusted."

"When our people control things, that sort of perversion won't exist," Crawford muttered into his cup.

"It's not the kid's fault there's a market for his wares," Schuldig shrugged. "I wouldn't have marked you as such a tender-hearted fellow, Crawford." His amusement faded away as Crawford thought, with great deliberation, of punching him in the mouth.

"I've finished," Crawford said, pushing his cup away. He lit a cigarette, his hands perfectly steady with the control mastered over years. "One day," he said, as if talking into en empty room, "I hadn't been in Rosenkreuz more than _one day_ -"

Schuldig said nothing, just signed for the bill to be brought over. He remained blessedly quiet while Crawford finished his cigarette and they walked out to meet the boys.

"There," Schuldig said, indicating a little knot of children between ten and thirteen years old, Crawford estimated, standing unnaturally still for boys of their age, like small animals waiting to see if they needed to flee. "Tschuß, boys. My friend and I need to talk to you," he said as he and Crawford came near. "We're looking for someone, the son of a friend of ours. He's lost somewhere in the city, and he's not smart like you, doesn't know how to take care of himself." The boys looked sceptical and worried, but didn't scatter. "He's a bit older than you, but he mightn't look it. He's Japanese – do you know what Japanese people look like?" Some of them nodded, others looked blank. "He's been in the city since last Thursday or Friday," Schuldig said. "I want you all to ask people, and get them to ask people, all right? We're going to pay for this information."

"How much?" one of the boys said. "It has to be worth our while, mister."

"It'll be all right," the boy who had approached them at the café said. "It's getting too hard to work right now, with all the extra police looking for the murderer. They're _everywhere_."

"Well," Schuldig said, "as you're the first boys smart enough to seek new employment while the police are out in force, and the first boys to come to work for us, we're going to give you some money tonight, and my friend –" He looked back at Crawford and the slightest of frowns crossed his face. "My friend is going to that café over there," he continued smoothly, "and is going to buy you each a cake." He shooed Crawford away.

He no doubt wanted no distractions while he forced their minds to his will, Crawford thought, going with some irritation where he was bid. Though what distraction one's partner posed was beyond him. "I want some cakes to take with me," he said to the waiter's enquiry. He tried to think what a child would like – they should all be the same, he thought, to avoid squabbles. "Eight little chocolate cakes," he said. "The sweetest you have - and give me eight poppy-seed bread rolls as well." All the boys looked half-starved, he told himself. It was only sensible to ensure they'd have the energy to go looking. By the time he returned, the boys were all eagerly talking to Schuldig, telling him about a variety of people they were _sure_ might be a Japanese boy. Schuldig laughed, and passed out the food.

"Don't worry," he said quietly to Crawford, "I've made it clear I can't be fooled. Now, boys – here is your first night's wage – " He gave them all a couple of coins. "Remember, fifty Marks and five cigarettes for good information that puts us on this poor lad's trail, one hundred Marks and two packs if you lead us to him yourself. Go on, off you go." He watched them rush off before turning back to Crawford.

"Fifty Marks?" Crawford said. "We will not be reimbursed, you know."

"We're buying their exclusive services," Schuldig shrugged. "They have to have a little lee-way to offer those they speak to a cut in the reward, and that sort of money is so far outside what they can normally expect that it will be a shining beacon calling them to greater effort. It's a long shot anyway. I want to ask some of the older boys to look as well." He stuffed his hands into his pockets against the growing chill of the night air. "Listen, Crawford," he said casually, "Why don't you go back to your hotel and get some rest? I know the city, I know how to approach people; I'll head up to the Tiergarten and be there for the next several hours. It's huge, Crawford, a forested park. You get some rest."

"You think I'm making this too personal?" Crawford said, feeling his anger build. "Are you suggesting I'm not professional enough to carry out some simple information gathering?"

"I suggest nothing," Schuldig said. "If we are to act as a team, let us be a team, Crawford. As your comrade in arms, I offer to let you sleep in peace. You can do the same for me at another time." He stepped closer and dropped his voice. "As your comrade in arms, let me simply say your thoughts are – disordered. This is probably due to tiredness. Not weakness."

Crawford felt the anger drain away. It was suspicious, he thought, to have such a new partner willing to forgive weakness and personal feelings, but Schuldig had already shown himself to be unusual in several regards. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing, to take advantage of his offer. He scowled as Schuldig's mouth spread in a broad grin. "Please don't read my mind," he said.

"It is an occupational hazard," Schuldig said, cheerful once Crawford seemed likely to give him his way. "And I _must_ try to distract myself, Crawford, I have a damn tune running round and round my head." He laughed. "The next stage will be for it to run in the minds of everyone near me! If I could remember what it _is_ , perhaps I could listen to it on the gramophone and banish it." He sang a couple of bars under his breath.

"It's Grieg," Crawford said, " _The Hall of the Mountain King_. Why on earth are you thinking of that?"

Schuldig shrugged. "It was running in the head of someone in the crowd back there –" he stopped all of a sudden, and whipped round, his gaze searching amidst the people walking in the street. "I thought –" he said, then shook his head. "Nothing. Ignore me, Crawford, sometimes I can't help but hear so many thoughts they become confused."

"I'll leave you and your music," Crawford said. "Let me know what you find – come to the hotel at any time."

"If I find anything I will come as quickly as I can," Schuldig said. "We'll have _some_ word within a day, I'm sure. The boy can't live on air, and my investigation will have spread very far by the end of the night. I'll see you tomorrow morning, if not before." 

With a wave of his hand he headed away. After a moment looking after him, Crawford hailed a taxi and went back to the hotel, concentrating all the way on not letting his memories of Rosenkreuz come to the surface of his mind.

* * *

__

  
10 000 Marks reward  
Who is the murderer?

The unknown murderer

The terror in our town has found a new victim. Certain evidence leads us to believe that the murderer is the same one who has already killed eight children. We must remind you again that a mother's first duty is to guard her children from the danger which always threatens. Also, the danger is often hidden in some attractive bait. Candy, a toy and fruit can be the murderer's weapons. The anxiety of the general public is very high because the police have not yet completed their investigations. But the police are faced with an almost impossible problem. The criminal has left no clue. Who is the murderer? What is he like? Where is he hiding? No one knows. Still, he is one of us. Is it your _neighbour?_

* * *

"This list of possible sightings is very little use," Crawford sighed. "These boys are so interested in the reward they believe we will accept anything at all." He shoved the list of places away, feeling a headache build once more. He fumbled a pack of cigarettes out, not caring if Schuldig thought him clumsy.

"No, look," Schuldig said. "The early ones centre on the north of the city, when boys report they saw him fleeing, not caring if he was observed or not – this is when he killed those se to guard him, and was perhaps so distraught by his own actions, or so convinced he would be quickly followed that all he cared about was speed, not concealment. Then, nothing for two days – he was hiding. Then, we get this wide-ranging series of reports – you're right of course, most of them are worthless but look, Crawford, look – " He spread out the tourist guide to the city he had brought with him, placing marks upon it. "The first night – then this rash of reports, where those who may have seen him find their stories duplicated by boys hoping for our money – and then these, more recent, rarer, as if he hides again –" Schuldig grinned and turned the garishly coloured map around, drawing a line between the Xs. "He's coming towards the city centre. There's something he wants."

Crawford rested his fingertips on the map; even if the majority of the reports were false, he thought, there was a pattern. It was highly likely such a pattern would continue into the future; those trained in Rosenkreuz found it difficult to be spontaneous when they first left for the greater world. He closed his eyes and pictured the map, the major tourist sights if the city drawn in the colourful style of cartons, thinking of how the architecture looked in reality – he saw a sudden flash of the architrave of a building, massive and imposing. " _Dem Deutschen Volke_ ," he murmured.

"What?" Schuldig said.

"I saw a building with that written on the architrave," Crawford said "It's connected with Naoe's movements. It's the Reichstag building, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's the damn Reichstag building," Schuldig said. "What does he want there? I was sure he was trying to make for the Japanese embassy!" He ground out his cigarette in excitement, and at once lit a fresh one. "What can one lost, little Japanese boy want with the German government?"

He and Crawford looked at each other, then leapt up, seizing their coats and hats before running from Crawford's room down the stairs of the hotel, too hurried to wait for the elevator. In their experience there was one thing people like them dealt with when politicians opposed their great and unstoppable aims, and that was death.

Procuring a taxi almost at once, they were taken up to the Tiergarten and reached the Platz der Republik some fifteen minutes later where they stood looking up the steps at the imposing Reichstag building before hurrying up and inside. Crawford looked about him, seeing only people engaged in the business of their day. Clerks ran to and fro, carrying sheaves of papers, while politicians walked smartly across the foyer towards meetings. People were becoming less hesitant in declaring their allegiances, he though, seeing how many openly wore NSDAP armbands. Beside him, Schuldig wore a look of utmost concentration, his eyes drifting shut as he searched in his own way for their quarry. Crawford turned about, feeling they would be approached, and saw a soberly-dressed man, a clerk of some kind, coming towards them from where he had risen behind his desk.

"May I help you, sirs?" he said, in tones of disapproval as Schuldig whistled as he looked about him at the marble and carvings. "Do you have business here?" 

"Yes," Schuldig said, wheeling about like a snake about to strike. "You may help us indeed." He put a hand on the man's shoulder, a gesture like two friends meeting, and the man's eyes turned dull and unseeing. "Don't let him fall," Schuldig said, his voice distant and cold. Crawford held the man up till his legs all at once would no longer support him, and together they dragged him to the stairs, seating him carefully. Schuldig put a hand upon his forehead in a parody of care and a few seconds later straightened again. "This gentleman has fainted!" he said in a loud voice. "Can someone bring him some water?"

As a curious little crowd gathered, Schuldig slipped away, beckoning Crawford after him. They strode down a corridor as if they had the perfect right to be there, and received no challenge. Schuldig listened a moment at a door, then, finding it locked, quickly picked the lock and they went inside. He went to the desk and hunted within it, bringing out a typed document heavily annotated in handwriting.

"Information on special security arrangements," he said cheerfully. "That fellow was very helpful in directing us here. We shouldn't take too long lest the occupant return!"

"Special security arrangements for what?" Crawford asked, taking a place by the door, and cautiously peering into the corridor beyond.

"There is to be a special address to the Reichstag tomorrow," Schuldig said. "Von Hindenburg is to address the parliament on his candidacy and why Germany must avoid the twin traps of communism and national socialism. It has been kept out of the papers to try to avoid fanning accusations of favouritism and unrest – what foolishness, for while some people will obediently keep silent, we can be sure others won't. Shall we see a pitched battle between the parties tomorrow, Crawford?"

Crawford smiled at his light tone. "Perhaps – it takes no clairvoyance to say that. These fools love to fight each other. It would be good for our people, Schuldig, to see Berlin in chaos. The common herd are easier to manipulate when they are frightened."

"True –" Schuldig murmured, his voice dying away as he picked up a newspaper lying on the desk. He read, his face looking all at once younger and distraught.

"What is it?" Crawford asked, seeing it was the latest edition. "What's happened?"

" _The murderer strikes once more_ ," Schuldig read. "It says the victim was a twelve year old boy, one Theodore Walde, known to the police for petty theft and "other immoralities". Crawford, that boy who approached us in the Linden Passage told me his name was Theo –"

"There are many such children," Crawford said, frowning at this display of sentiment.

Schuldig looked at him sourly. "The journalist aims to excite some pathos so his readers can feel sorry for a little whore. One sad little detail he notes is that the boy had some money on him, no doubt to buy an honest bed for the night where he could eat the half of a small chocolate cake he had so carefully wrapped. This _is_ one of our little band of youthful workers."

"Ah," Crawford said. "Twelve? He was so small I wouldn't have put him past ten." The look Schuldig gave him then was flat and venomous, and Crawford wondered how he had offended him. A premonition touched him suddenly. "Schuldig, the occupant of this office is coming back, we must leave."

They left at once, walking unchallenged back down the corridor and, at Schuldig's insistence, out into the open air once more. Schuldig walked fast, drawing ahead of Crawford as he marched across the square, heading for where he could hail a taxi. Crawford lengthened his stride to catch up.

"What is it?" he said. "Why are you angry?"

"We sent that boy to his death," Schuldig said. "I put a compulsion in all their minds to forego their own business and devote themselves wholly to ours. I made him less wary, perhaps."

"The murderer preys on children," Crawford said. "The boy made his living from approaching men who wished to prey on children! A sad end, no doubt, but one that is surely not out of the ordinary." He put his hand on Schuldig's arm. "It's nothing to us if a tool is lost, there are more for us to use."

Schuldig stopped dead. "I'm sorry to have put such _vulgar_ concerns on display," he said. "You must be tired of seeing me act in such a way, as if these people were worthy of a moment's thought when they so obviously –" he stopped, his face changing. "Are we to have _no_ human feelings in the new order at all?" he asked, a little plaintively. "Even now you're wondering if I'm upset because I'd bought the boy before and will miss him – I told you, I don't like children in that way! Damn it, Crawford." He looked aside. "Naoe will want to be here tomorrow, don't you think? He could be close by. I'm going to search out some of the people I know who frequent the Tiergarten for their vulgar business; perhaps they have news for me. You might want to stay in this area, in case he shows himself. I'll send word if I find anything."

Without another word he was gone. Crawford looked after him as he walked away quickly, and thought this odd outburst was nothing worth mentioning in any report. Schuldig had been understanding of his own stupidity the night before, and no doubt there was something of the same underlying cause in this stupidity of Schuldig's. Rosenkreuz left its mark on everyone; the only thing to do was to be strong thereafter and to refuse to think about it too much. _I'll buy him a drink later,_ Crawford thought, having a sudden brief view of them both drinking brandy. _He'll have got over this by then_. With this thought in mind, he began to look around him, drawing up lines of sight in his mind, and estimating the best place for a half-trained boy like Naoe to hide, while having a clear view of anyone exiting from official cars drawn up before the entrance to the Reichstag building. 

As dusk fell Crawford retreated to a café, the lack of food since morning suddenly striking him full force. He foresaw no interruptions and so ordered a full meal, eating it with a good appetite. After he strolled back to look at the Reichstag building, seeing how the shadows fell. Would Naoe be willing to risk crossing the square now that he could hope people wouldn't see his face so clearly? Perhaps, Crawford thought and heard at that moment quick footsteps behind him. He turned to see a boy in the later teenage years come close to him.

"Are you Crawford?" the boy said warily.

"Yes."

"I've got a message: Schuldig says he's found the boy. I'm to take you to him." He scowled as Crawford stepped towards him. "Your friend said you'd pay me."

"I'm sure he said I'd pay after you led me to him," Crawford said, smiling. "I'm not so stupid as to give you money beforehand."

The boy shrugged. "This way." He quickly led Crawford out of the square and further into the park, looking behind him once or twice to make sure Crawford was keeping up. Finally he held up a hand and silently pointed to where Crawford could see Schuldig crouched behind some bushes. Crawford dug in his pocket and handed over a fistful of coins, not caring how much he gave, then went forward himself as Schuldig beckoned.

They knelt in the cover provided by the bushes, and Schuldig indicated a gap through which Crawford should look. _Be very quiet_ , Crawford heard Schuldig's voice say in his mind. _We don't want to frighten him._ Within the clump of bushes, some twenty feet from where they knelt, Crawford could see a dark shape. It resolved itself into a seated figure as it raised one arm and brushed the hair from its eyes. This, he thought, was the missing Naoe boy. He looked tired and ill, his hand shaking as he brushed the hair back and it fell forward into his face once more. The boy was dirty and seemed cold; he shivered more in the evening air than Crawford would have expected. _Maybe he hasn't eaten these past few days_ , Schuldig suggested. _He's trampled down a little space for himself here – I think he's just stayed here for at least two days._

Crawford looked at Schuldig, forming in his mind the question as to whether Schuldig could make Naoe sit still while he was apprehended. Schuldig looked at him sidelong. _He'll have_ some _defences against me. Don't dawdle, I'll hold him as long as I can._ Crawford nodded and Schuldig held up fingers to emphasise his voice. _Three, two, one -_

Naoe's head snapped up, a look of shock on his thin and dirty face. Crawford rose from his knees and sprang forward into the boy's little hiding place. Seizing his arms and pulling them behind him he said, "Don't fight, Naoe, we are not here to hurt you, merely to retrieve you."

The boy stared at him, wild-eyed, shaking with the effort to break free from Schuldig's compulsion to remain still. With a shriek he wrenched one arm free with a force Crawford later thought must almost have dislocated it and made a violent gesture towards Crawford's face. Crawford found himself borne over backwards, and held on as tight as he could to the boy's other arm. He hit the ground hard, Naoe landing on top of him. Schuldig pushed through the bushes, and Naoe, his face desperate, screamed wordlessly at him with a force that knocked him back. Crawford grappled the boy, to find his next attack rather more physical as he caught up a stone and attempted to smash it into Crawford's face. Crawford seized both his wrists then saw what would happen but was powerless to stop it, as the boy, with the strength born of overwhelming fear, dragged Crawford's hand up and sank his teeth into the softer flesh between thumb and forefinger.

"Damn you, boy!" Crawford said, and let go, hoping to deal the boy a blow to knock him out. The boy wrenched his other hand free and scrambled away on hands and knees, coming to his feet to run. He broke from the bushes as Crawford got up and Schuldig leapt after him, more quickly than was natural. The boy turned and flung both his hands forward towards his pursuers. Crawford heard a noise like a clap of thunder and with a feeling of dread leapt forward to bowl Schuldig over, rolling them both to the side as a full grown tree fell without any warning, coming down as quickly as if it had been sawed. He and Schuldig both flinched, their arms about each other's heads as the branches thudded down around them.

"My God," Schuldig breathed, opening his eyes to see a heavy branch inches above his face. "That little bastard –" He freed himself from the prison of wood and from a standing start leapt easily up onto the main trunk, looking about him to see which way Naoe had run. "There!" he cried, pointing, and leapt down on the other side of the tree.

Crawford followed more slowly; Schuldig's abilities were clearly not limited to telepathy, he thought, as Schuldig gained on the fleeing boy. No longer caring about stealth, Naoe brought another tree down in Schuldig's path and with a last burst of speed leapt as far out into the Landswehrkanal as he could. Crawford heard a startled yell, and caught up with Schuldig at the canal bank.

"I can jump great distances, but I'm not trying that," Schuldig said flatly.

"What did he do? Where is he?" Crawford said. "I didn't hear a splash – "

Schuldig grimly indicated a barge on the opposite side of the canal, some fifty feet away, the bargeman looking about him in puzzled anger. "He leapt from here –" He pointed at the mark left by a shoe in the earth of the bank. "Onto that barge, and then onto the other bank. At only twenty feet he must have thought that a mere step. He landed on the barge with such force the damn thing sank down in the water several inches." He kicked at the ground in frustration, watching the barge pull away into the deepening darkness. "We've lost him."

Crawford looked behind them as he heard a step. The boy who had led him to Schuldig stared at them both, his eyes round with astonishment and fright. "How did he do that?" the boy said. "He made the trees fall by _pointing_ at them. And you – " he stared at Schuldig. "People can't run and jump like that – what _are_ you?"

"I told you to bring this man here and to leave," Schuldig said wearily. "Why couldn't you have left?" He turned to face the boy. "Come here," he said.

The boy took one look at him and fled. Schuldig sighed, looking at Crawford in apology. "I'm too tired to do other than this," he said, and pulled out a pistol and shot the boy in the back. "I told him to go," he said again, his voice heavy and weary. "He should have listened."

* * *

_Herr Dreher,_

_Schuldig and I tonight located the Naoe boy. While he evaded capture, I am sure his continued presence in Berlin is in some way connected with the address von Hindenburg is to give to the Reichstag tomorrow. We will certainly capture Naoe then. I estimate my messenger should deliver this letter by dawn at the latest. Please contact me at the hotel either by telegram or by telephone by nine o'clock if you have further orders._

_\- Crawford_

_Kortig,_

_Do you consider me a complete_ fool _? This man you recommended is useless! Worse than useless! First he cannot find the boy, and now he has let him escape! Read the enclosed letter – whose man is Crawford? He is investigating the connexion with von Hindenburg! Do not pretend you're not behind this, Kortig - I know you are merely trying to shift the blame. If I don't have the boy by tonight I must conclude you are working only for yourself, and I'll denounce you. We must hang together, Kortig or we must definitely hang separately._

_\- Dreher_

_Schmidt,_

_I believe Dreher has turned against us. We must bring him to his senses. He thinks he can have loyalties outside our people. Go to the address I sent previously. The children are to be sent unharmed to Rosenkreuz for assessment. When you've done with her, send Dreher his wife's head with my compliments._

_\- Kortig_

* * *

Schuldig would not settle down, pacing back and forth across the floor of Crawford's hotel room until it seemed possible he would wear a track in the carpet. Crawford sat wearily at the desk, reading over the scant instructions they had been given and finding in them no further clue as to how to proceed. He let two cigarettes burn down to ash before he noticed how distracted he was and made himself smoke the next one with great deliberation, hoping it would calm him.

"Schuldig," he said, "if you're not going home, at least sit down."

"I think better when I'm moving," Schuldig said, and paced on. He stopped suddenly, glared at Crawford and said, "He threw a _tree_ at us! A tree!"

"It was effective," Crawford said, and lit another cigarette. "Either of us would have done the same if we were him."

"Not me," Schuldig said. "If I could just snap an enemy's neck by looking at them, I wouldn't bother with as ungainly a missile as a tree."

"He didn't mean to kill us," Crawford mused.

"The balance of the evidence," Schuldig said, punctuating his speech with jabs of his own cigarette in Crawford's direction, "is that he _did_. The evidence being a ton of wood, Crawford, that he _threw_ at us. I'm just saying he's a young idiot who hasn't outgrown the grand gesture."

"How does that help?" Crawford closed his eyes, trying to force himself to see what the next day would bring. "If he is indeed heading for the Reichstag building, will he still try it now he knows we're after him?"

"What makes it so important to him?" Schuldig contributed.

"If he's really going there tomorrow, the obvious target is von Hindenburg," Crawford said, "Though surely he would always have been the obvious target – why would the boy flee but still attempt to carry out his mission? We can assume he didn't come up with the idea by himself, I think." He heard Schuldig stop pacing again and opened his eyes.

"Perhaps," Schuldig said slowly, "he's not going to assassinate von Hindenburg." He looked solemnly at Crawford. "Do you think the other candidates will miss out on the chance for a debate in front of the entire Reichstag?"

Crawford blinked as a brief image of armed struggle in the streets of Berlin flashed before his eyes. "You think someone is working against Eszett's aims from within the organisation?" he said. 

"I think if they succeed, we'll find Eszett has new aims," Schuldig said.

"If either Thälmann or Hitler is assassinated, the KPD and the NDSAP will start open warfare in the streets, more than they do now," Crawford said. "Perhaps that's what Eszett wants – it would provide the chaos from which a new world can be created." He thought about it. "Riots in one country wouldn't be enough, though, I think – "

"Riots, warfare," Schuldig said, interrupting him. "Maybe I should have shot Naoe."

" _Shot_ him? Are you mad? If we don't return him – "

"No matter who he's been sent to kill, the end result will be war," Schuldig said, sitting down on Crawford's bed. "If he kills von Hindenburg, both the KDP and the NSDAP will take the opportunity to blame each other, and will throw the cities into turmoil. If he kills either Thälmann or Hitler, the same thing will happen. And if he kills none of them – " Schuldig laughed humourlessly. "You know what the KPD say? _A vote for Hindenburg is a vote for Hitler; a vote for Hitler is a vote for war._ War is coming, Crawford, no one needs clairvoyance to see that."

"So what is it you think he's doing?" Crawford said. "You're the one who has been stationed here, assess the situation."

"I think he's just the tool of others," Schuldig said. "I think you're right, and some faction within Eszett is attempting something we can't fully see. The boy – " he shrugged. "I think he's desperate, and hungry and hopes to get himself out of his predicament with one grand gesture. He may be strong, Crawford, but he's only half trained and he's too young and too conspicuous simply to have been sent here officially. Perhaps he's expendable."

"We could kill him," Crawford said. "It could solve a lot of problems. We would rid ourselves and our superiors of an embarrassment." It could be reported in a way that would shift much of the blame to Naoe himself, Crawford thought. The boy was weakened by fear and hunger, and could be provoked into a public display that would need swift, decisive action to deceive the common herd. He looked at Schuldig, who hadn't moved in several moments. "What now?"

"Do you remember being young and expendable?" Schuldig said.

"Young, yes. I was too valuable to be expendable."

"But not too valuable to be protected." Schuldig crossed his arms before him as if seeking some vague protection. "How old were you when they took you to Rosenkreuz?"

"Nine," Crawford said. "Why?"

"I was ten," Schuldig said. "I was easy prey for them, after the war." He lit a fresh cigarette and watched the glowing end. "How did they get you?"

"I was a clever child, and reading at a level advanced for my age, my parents weren't all that surprised to hear I'd won a scholarship to a prestigious school," Crawford said. "I was surprised, because I knew very well I hadn't sat the exams the supposed teachers said I had. No one even listened to me, and they took me away within a few days."

"My father wasn't a young man," Schuldig said, not quite looking at anything. "So he didn't sign up for almost two years, till they got desperate and started pulling in those they would have rejected at the start. I remember I was excited – my father, a soldier! He said the Kaiser had written to him asking him to give a hand, and he didn't want to be rude. He said when he came back, the Kaiser would give him a wooden horse for me. I –" Schuldig stopped, then laughed, hollow and hard-toned. "You know, for years afterwards I told myself it was my fault. If I hadn't wanted that damn wooden horse, he wouldn't have gone." 

"How old were you?"

"Six."

"Well," Crawford said, "that sort of foolish irrationality is to be expected in a child –"

"Of course," Schuldig said. "But it doesn't mean it didn't feel like the truth." He shrugged. "We had nothing after that, and in 1918, when the influenza came, my mother and sisters all died. I never even got sick. I never get sick, not seriously. So they put me in an orphanage stuffed full of children in my situation. Everyone was desperate, and no one asked too many questions if people offered a home to one of the children. I was told a nice lady and gentleman wanted a little boy, and I was to call them Mother and Father. I could see at once they weren't nice at all. I didn't know how I knew; I just knew their minds were full of rotten, mean things covered in slime and filth. Twelve years later, I can only admire my untrained perspicacity."

"I don't see how this is relevant," Crawford said, politely. It was always a mistake to talk about this sort of thing, he thought. No one liked to remember a time they were weak.

"There were so many of us there, orphans of the war or the influenza," Schuldig said. "We were just lying in plain sight, easy fruit for the picking, with no parents or families to trick or confuse, just over-worked caretakers eager to shift as many of us as they could so they could make room for the next child. I'm simply wondering if Naoe is another of my unhappy lot – he'd have been a small child when the war ended; did they pick him up from a Japanese orphanage, do you think, an expendable child thrown to the wolves because there were just too many to deal with? I don't want to kill him."

Crawford went to his suitcase and pulled out the small flask of brandy he kept for medical reasons. He poured a good measure into the flask's cup and handed it to Schuldig. "It's not sensible to think he's like you," he said.

"It's not sensible to assume he isn't. Here's a sensible reason for you – the boy is strong and we'll be rewarded for keeping him alive. Someone in Eszett will want him back," Schuldig said, his face closed off and mulish.

Crawford rolled his eyes up to heaven and stretched, standing up to try to ease his tired muscles. He vaguely wished for something to eat, but all that was left of the various food they had consumed while planning was some dried out bread and cheese gone hard in the air. He held up a hand in surrender.

"No doubt someone will. It's long past four in the morning, Schuldig. You may be used to staying up till this late hour, but I'm not. Go home."

Schuldig looked deflated and lonely and some years younger as he looked down, signalling a submission Crawford was quite sure was false. "I'm tired too, and I don't want to walk back. May I stay? I won't do anything _vulgar_." He lowered himself into the armchair. "I'll sleep here."

"Don't be stupid; the bed's big enough," Crawford said shortly. "You'd better not snore."

* * *

Crawford woke late, his eyes sore from the late night. He rubbed at them, straightening out his legs and mentally cursing the way he was huddled at the edge of the bed. He looked over at Schuldig, finding him curled up tightly at the far side of the bed. The sleep would have done good for neither of them, Crawford thought, and reached out to shake Schuldig. He had barely put a finger on his shoulder before Schuldig had quickly turned over and half risen to his knees, one hand in a fist, ready to defend himself.

"Ah," Schuldig said, as sleep left his eyes. "How embarrassing." He knelt on the mattress and scrubbed his hands across his face, his hair sticking up in bright tufts and spikes from his head.

"You must make an exciting sleeping partner," Crawford said drily.

"I've had no complaints," Schuldig said, and let himself fall face first back onto his pillow. "I don't suppose I can sleep for another three hours?" he said in a muffled voice.

"No," Crawford said. He checked his watch and felt a pang of frustration that he had allowed Schuldig to so disrupt his schedule the night before. It was almost eleven o'clock. "Time to get up."

"Damn," Schuldig muttered.

Crawford looked at the door a moment before a quiet, trained knock sounded. He glanced over at Schuldig who heaved an exaggerated sigh, clearly paying attention to his surroundings despite his appearance of sleep.

"The bellboy," Schuldig said into the pillows, and pulled the blankets over himself. 

Crawford opened the door and looked in inquiry at the young man waiting outside.

"A letter came for you, sir," the young man said. "And your usual newspaper - there was no answer when I came before."

Crawford took the letter and paper and tipped him, closing the door gently, though he wanted to slam it in his annoyance at sleeping so late. He blinked as he found his room totally empty of another person, then found he could in fact make out the shape of Schuldig, covered over with blankets.

"If you can hide yourself like that from casual perception you're clearly not asleep," Crawford said. He looked blearily at his reflection in the mirror by the door and half-heartedly ran a comb through his hair. "The press has got wind of von Hindenburg's address," he said, glancing at the headline. He tossed the paper on the bed. "Make yourself useful and see if there's anything in there we don't already know." He snorted with amusement as the still and silent lump under the blankets radiated disapproval at being bothered, and ran a finger under the flap of the thick envelope the bellboy had brought him. The hasty, sloping writing on the first sheet looked at first unfamiliar, then Crawford read on, faster and faster, his eyes widening. He flung the first sheet aside and cursed as he fumbled the other sheets, dropping half of them. He grabbed them up, reordering them and feeling his breath shorten.

"What is it?" Schuldig said, emerging from beneath the blankets, his hair even more tousled than before. "Crawford, your mind -"

"Get _up_ ," Crawford said, hearing the unaccustomed shock in his own voice. "We're leaving _right now_."

Schuldig leapt from the bed and snatched up his clothes. "Put your trousers on at least," he said, and had the gall to laugh as Crawford attempted to kill him with a mere glare.

Less than five minutes later they were in a taxi, heading for the Reichstag building.

* * *

_Crawford,_

 _By the time this reaches you I shall, no doubt, already be dead. You may, therefore, feel you are under no obligation to follow my orders as I shall hardly be able to punish you. Bear in mind that even Eszett cannot totally overrule the role of luck - if I live and discover your disobedience, trust that I shall have gained a position of power from which I can and will punish you harshly if you have disobeyed. All previous orders are rescinded. Don't try to capture Naoe - you must simply stop him. Killing him is probably the easiest option. Take as many bystanders with him as seems necessary, just_ stop him _._

_Second: Gerhard Kortig is a traitor. He is working against our ideals and has suborned others within Eszett. The documents enclosed should provide enough leverage for you to bring him down. Do so._

_You will be rightly suspicious, seeing my name in these documents. Understand, Crawford, I care nothing for you or any advantage this may give you - though if you are as clever as Kortig thinks you can see the advantage clearly. What I want is simpler to understand - if luck does not favour me, as I think it will not, I hope you will give me revenge. I shall not know it, but at this moment I find I have hope, cold that it is. By reading these documents you have dangerous knowledge, and you must do something. Whatever you decide to do, Kortig is in your way, and I shall have to trust that will be enough._

_I was,_

_Ernst Dreher_

* * *

The Platz der Republik was a sea of bodies, the KPD and NSDAP supporters already fighting viciously at the edges of the crowd. It would take little for it to become a full-scale riot, Crawford thought, watching the crowd heave and push at the line of policemen keeping a wide area in front of the Reichstag building's steps clear.

"You're going to have to be the one to disable Naoe," he said. "You can do that, can't you?"

"Are you sure we're not to retrieve him?" Schuldig said. "If you don't care how much of a mind I leave him I can stop him dead." He looked at the crowd in distaste. "Shut up," he muttered, unconsciously raising a hand to his temple, "shut _up_. Damn, Crawford, I hate the lowing of these cattle." He looked sharply at Crawford. "It'll be easier if I'm nearer to him - Crawford, I don't see how I can disguise either his or my abilities."

"It doesn't matter," Crawford said. "Anything they see will be put down to mass hysteria. Do what you must."

Schuldig took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Are we obeying this dead man, Crawford? He was right, you know - he's almost certainly dead. How can he harm us?"

"Schuldig," Crawford said patiently, "we know of his and Kortig's plans - if we don't stop them we'll be seen as accomplices, and then we too shall shortly be dead. We have to obey - Dreher gets his revenge for whatever slight Kortig dealt him and we - let us hope - get to live."

"I find that I like their plans," Schuldig said and waved a hand at the crowd. "Imagine it, Crawford. There are so many hotheads here, so many cooler ambitious heads in there -" he jerked his thumb at the huge building. "Germany would _explode_ into a hundred different local battles for power and no one would have any attention to spare for anything else for _years_." He leant in close, his breath against Crawford's ear tickling and seductive. "I have no politics, Crawford, but I like what I have found in this city and I don't think it will survive Eszett's favoured candidate. Let Naoe through - you're balancing the lives of three politicians against so much more. Let him kill all of the candidates; Eszett will get its chaos within Germany, though not as much as it wants for the world."

"You're mad," Crawford whispered back. "You value your jazz clubs over your life?"

"No," Schuldig said, "and yes. The clubs, and the musicians and the stupid patrons, and Hans whom I hope has found someone else to long for, and Gruen and his never-ending work, and boys like Theo Walde - they're _alive_ , Crawford, like we're _not_ , and you think they're _vulgar_ \- oh, Crawford, how can you despise them, or me for liking them? Listen - I asked Gruen once why he kept on working, when the HJ broke his windows and beat up the boys he helps and the SA beat his people up all over the city. Wouldn't it be better to stop? To get out of Berlin? He said, _We have to help those less fortunate than ourselves, for we too were once slaves in Egypt_. I laughed at him, and told him I knew he had no religious faith at all, and he said, _We were still slaves_."

Crawford stepped away so as not to hear him, and Schuldig's voice ran on in his head. _Be sure you want me to kill Naoe, Crawford. Everything could change here, with us. We could act as if we were free, rather than staying in the bondage we've been in all our lives._

"Neither of us is religious," Crawford muttered, inaudible against the crowd's noise.

_We are still slaves. Let's leave Egypt, Brad._

Crawford's response died upon his lips as he saw a commotion at the edge of the crowd. It began as a mere ripple of movement then increased in speed, a gap forming amidst the bodies and closing up again. "Schuldig -" he said, pointing. As if his gesture had caused all the world but the three of them to fall silent, he saw Naoe look their way from the centre of the moving gap. The boy looked haggard and desperate, his eyes sunken and feverish in his too-thin face. With a grimace Naoe turned away and gestured at the crowd in front of him. The bodies parted like the tide drawing back and Naoe began to run, aimed straight at the Reichstag building's steps.

"I don't have to hide?" Schuldig said.

"No," Crawford said.

Schuldig ran at the crowd screaming " _Move!_ " and people scrambled out of his way, Crawford following as quickly as he could. Running flat out he found he could predict where Schuldig's passage would have left enough room to force himself through. Suddenly Schuldig increased his speed, and then jumped straight up, taking the last fifty metres of his journey in a blur of motion leaping from one set of shoulders to the next. Crawford lost sight of him as he tried to force his way through the now almost impenetrable throng, then he heard a sound, loud and sharp like thunder. He found himself dropped to the ground, the premonition of danger that had made him throw himself down too quick to be fully comprehended. A body fell across him, and another. Crawford clawed his way up, a vision of being suffocated beneath other bodies seizing him. He found himself at the edge of a circle ten metres in radius, the crowd flung down violently as if their legs had been cut from beneath them. At the centre, in a gap of clear space, he saw Schuldig and Naoe. The boy was lying face down, Schuldig crouched over him, one knee pressing down between the boy's shoulder blades. They were both absolutely still. Crawford picked his way across the bodies, noting that while those at the edge of the circle had begun to moan and move, those further in lay broken and twisted. Behind him he could hear the shocked voices of those in the greater crowd who now watched what he and Schuldig did. 

"Schuldig?" he said, and felt relief as Schuldig lifted his head and looked at him.

"He's strong; if he hadn't been weakened from the hunger and living rough in the cold -" Schuldig said, a thread of stress in his voice. "He has some telepathic ability to go with the rest." He looked down at the boy and back up to Crawford. "I haven't killed him. I don't know how badly I hurt him, but he's alive. Crawford – he's been caught up in this like we have –"

Crawford drew his pistol, caring not a jot for the exclamations of the men around them. He aimed at the back of the boy's head. "You might want to move," he said. "I'm a good shot, but the splinters of his skull might fly into your eyes."

Schuldig shifted his position, leaning back and moving his weight further down the boy's back, never taking his eyes from Crawford's face. Crawford cocked the pistol and took aim. With great effort, as if he were moving the weight of a mountain, Naoe turned his head and looked up at Crawford. In the light of day his eyes were an unexpected dark blue, deep shadows under them showing how exhausted Naoe was. He looked nothing like the many men Crawford had shot. Appearances were deceiving, as Crawford well knew, but Naoe looked only like a sick boy, younger-seeming than his years; a lost child forced to do terrible things in the hope of survival. It was an expression he knew all too well from his years in Rosenkreuz. They stared at each other in silence. Crawford shifted his gaze to Schuldig's face and deliberately uncocked the pistol. He slid it back into his shoulder holster and bent down to grab one of Naoe's arms, ignoring the smile that spread across Schuldig's face.

"Keep him quiet," Crawford said, and between them they dragged the boy away, Schuldig using his telepathy to order a path cleared for them through the jostling, yelling crowd.

* * *

Crawford returned from ordering food to be brought to his room, to discover Schuldig holding a glass of water to Naoe's mouth. The boy looked no better for having had his face sponged clean, Crawford thought, looking at the hollows in his cheeks and the dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes.

"The food will be brought as soon as possible," he said. "Does he still want to fight?"

"I don't think so," Schuldig said. "Naoe?" He looked searchingly into the boy's face then nodded, satisfied. "He doesn't have the training to hide intentions from me," he said. "He won't fight."

"Naoe, we're not going to kill you, or hand you back to the men who took you from Rosenkreuz," Crawford said. The boy let out a breath, and tension left his rigid muscles, leaving him younger looking than ever. "Their plan has failed – tell me, were you so enamoured of their views you wanted to carry the plan out even after you escaped?"

"He can answer you," Schuldig murmured.

The boy looked at the floor and kept silent. "Are you sending me back to Rosenkreuz?" he said after a whole minute had passed. His German sounded as fluent as Crawford's own, only the slightest trace of a foreign accent underlying it.

"You know you have to answer my question," Crawford said. So much for the theory of a boy newly brought to Europe, he thought, mentally cursing Eszett's love of withholding information that could be useful in carrying out its demands.

Naoe looked straight at him. "I didn't even really know who those men were. Politicians, they said. I was just meant to kill them, I wasn't told why."

"So why did you try?" Schuldig said. "Why didn't you just flee Berlin?"

"And go where?" Naoe said bitterly. "I just – I didn't want to get in any more trouble. I wanted to do what I was told and hope it would be enough to be forgiven."

"Odd to meet someone who wants to return to Rosenkreuz," Schuldig said over his shoulder to Crawford.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Naoe said dully.

"You killed Steiner and Glasheim," Crawford said. "Not the mark of a good student."

"I didn't have anything against Herr Steiner," Naoe whispered. "He was nice to me, -he gave me his novels to read when he'd finished them. I panicked –"

"You didn't panic," Schuldig said. "You just needed to be alone with Glasheim, to kill him at your leisure."

"You don't understand!" Naoe cried, with the first real emotion Crawford had seen from him since his capture. "I _did_ panic! You don't know what he was like, and I couldn't bear it any more, and I knocked him out before I knew what I was doing." He shook, looking down at his hands. "I kept thinking of what he'd do to me when he woke up, how he'd always have that insubordination to use against me, and I knew I'd have to kill him. Herr Steiner – I did it so quick, he didn't even know I was there. It didn't hurt. He was always nice to me," Naoe finished, his voice running down.

"And then you spent time killing Glasheim," Crawford said. "A lot of time, the report indicated. You enjoyed it."

"Yes," Naoe said, his face set in anger. "He deserved it."

"We're getting some truth from you at least," Schuldig said.

Crawford held up a hand. "The food," he said. "I told them to bring the soup up as soon as it was ready, not to wait to bring everything together." He opened the door as soon as the light knock came upon it and admitted the waiter with his trolley. The man set out a tray with bowls of soup upon it on the desk and left, without giving any indication he had seen anything out of the ordinary. Crawford carried a bowl and spoon to Naoe and the boy took them awkwardly, looking at the soup as if wanting to simply drain the bowl in one draught. "Drink it slowly," Crawford said.

Naoe took the soup one slow spoonful at a time, his hands shaking. When he'd finished, Crawford allowed him some bread and they waited for the rest of the food. When it arrived Naoe ate in tiny bites, showing an admirable restraint for someone who had been days without food.

"Thanks for not throwing trees at us this time," Schuldig said, eating his own dinner more quickly.

"There weren't any near enough," Naoe said laconically, surprising a laugh from Schuldig. "And I was too tired, anyway. You got my last effort today." He put his plate aside. "What are you going to do with me?"

"That's something we'll have to consider," Crawford said, thinking at the same time, _Schuldig? Can you control him – the food has given him new reserves of strength, it seems. Make him sleep._

Schuldig put his plate down, crossing quickly to Naoe as the boy swayed, a look of surprise and fear on his face. "It's all right," Schuldig said, guiding his collapse down to the bed rather than the floor. "Rest. You won't be harmed." He crouched for a while, his hand on Naoe's forehead, then stood, a satisfied expression on his face. "He's deeply asleep," he said. "I've placed suggestions in his mind that we are to be trusted. He'll struggle against them, of course, but if we take things slowly he'll come to believe he grows to trust us naturally. And if we don't harm him, then it will become the truth."

"How long will he sleep?"

Schuldig picked up one of Naoe's thin arms and let it fall bonelessly back to the bed, not disturbing the boy in the least. "Hours."

"Good," Crawford said, taking off his glasses to polish them. "Let's go out, I want some fresh air."

Schuldig didn't look pleased, but wordlessly put on his coat and picked up his hat. Crawford led the way in silence, taking them out of the hotel and aimlessly up and down streets as the whim took him.

"I must make a decision about him," he said at last.

"Why didn't you kill him?" Schuldig said. He turned his back to the wind and lit a cigarette, patently ignoring Crawford's disapproval. 

"Several reasons," Crawford said. "Dreher's documents indicate that Naoe's removal from Rosenkreuz was covered up successfully; he simply vanished as far as anyone else was concerned. Kortig no doubt has worked very hard to pas the blame on to his dead co-conspirators. As such, Naoe is an asset – we can send him back and hope for a reward, or we can hold on to him as proof of the conspiracy and as a means of keeping Kortig from coming after us before we can seek him out. We can use him ourselves – he's strong and would be useful. Dead, he's just rotting meat." He looked unsmilingly at Schuldig. "And because he reminded me of myself. You needn't look so smug, I know you had to be listening to my thoughts."

Schuldig laughed, sidestepping a man hurrying past them. "You think I'm a bad influence on you," he said.

"You are," Crawford muttered. He smiled at Schuldig's obvious pleasure. He'd miss working with him, he thought, even if Schuldig had tempted him into disobedience. Not that it mattered now, not with the conspiracy thwarted, Dreher dead, and the other conspirators scurrying to appear as loyal as they could. His smile broadened as Schuldig began to whistle piercingly. "That tune's still in your head, I see."

"That man had it in his head," Schuldig said, waving vaguely back behind them. "At least it's a pleasant enough tune, even if it is about monsters." He went back to whistling, stopping only when he wished to take a drag upon his cigarette. As they drew level with a stall covered with bright, cheap toys for children, the elderly stall holder stepped forward, the expression on his face one of deep concentration. He was, Crawford saw, the blind man they had passed on the way to see Gruen, trying his luck in a new spot.

"Excuse me," Crawford said politely, trying to step round him.

"Sir!" the blind man called, facing towards Schuldig. "Do you want to buy another balloon?"

"A balloon?" Schuldig laughed, "I'm a little old for that."

The man frowned. "No," he said as if to himself, "the voice isn't right. You sound much younger, sir. Sorry."

Schuldig held up a hand as Crawford shrugged and would have gone on. "Younger than whom?" he said.

"Just someone who has bought from me before," the man said. "I had thought I recognised the tune you whistled, that's all."

Schuldig whistled a few bars of the tune again, and pointed at how the toy seller's mouth drew into a thin and angry line.

"He had her with him," the man said. "I tried to tell the police and they wouldn't listen, but he had her with him."

"Had who?" Crawford said.

"The Beckmann girl! He asked her name when he bought the balloon! But my evidence is useless because I can't describe him."

"Elsie Beckmann?" Schuldig said. "The man had Elsie Beckmann with him, and he was whistling that tune?" _The murderer!_ his voice said in Crawford's mind.

"No one believed me," the old man said.

"He just walked past you," Schuldig said. "He was whistling it as he passed us, that's how I started whistling it." He looked back up the street. "I can still see him," he said. "He's buying a newspaper, and is talking in a friendly way to the boy selling them."

The man seized up a cane and walked up the street, tapping it before him. "Thank you!" he called back as he hurried along.

"You're sending a blind street seller after a supposed child-killer?" Crawford said. "This is a cruel joke, isn't it?"

Schuldig looked at him, his expression blank, as if listening. "When we passed our musical friend," he said, "he was thinking of how much he wanted to get home to play with his dear little Klaus and Klara. They're common enough names - " He looked sidelong at Crawford. "He's still thinking about them – I've just made him want to whistle aloud to provide a musical trail to be followed. In June, Klaus and Klara Klawitzky went missing. They never found the bodies, but the police officially added them to the list of victims."

"I never expected to find you had such a soft heart," Crawford said. "Wouldn't it be better to chase him yourself than let a blind man follow him?"

"I've given him a good trail. This is _his_ city, Crawford – though I love it, I'm not sure it's mine any more. I'm not sure it ever was." He flicked his cigarette away. "I was pretending I was free, but I'm not – neither of us are, and as for Naoe, wanting to go back to Rosenkreuz –"

"You could bring him to Gruen, maybe he could find him something to do," Crawford said, surprising himself.

"Maybe," Schuldig said, "if the elections weren't going to go as they probably now will. I'm going to tell Gruen to get out of here, not that he'll listen. We should have let Naoe get through." He smiled at Crawford. "What are you going to do now?"

Crawford jammed his hands in his pockets against the cold. "Go back to England," he said. He saw his future clearly, without any vision being involved. He would work for Eszett all his life and would reach a certain level of comfort and power, and when he died, would be forgotten. It seemed an empty sort of life, he thought. "How's your spoken English?" he asked. "You could come to London, for a while at least."

"My English is fine," Schuldig said in English that was understandable if accented. "I've never been to London."

"When your clubs close down here, come and see me," Crawford said.

"I might at that. What about the boy?"

"If he can't stay here, I'll take him with me," Crawford said and started walking again. "Of course, before I go we'll have to start moving ourselves into a position where Kortig can't easily assail us, but from which we can attack him if he proves to be a threat; I won't be leaving immediately."

"Then I can show you a few more of my favourite places," Schuldig grinned. "Some of them are magnificently vulgar - you'll hate them."

"I look forward to it," Crawford said, and when Schuldig lit another cigarette, to smoke in the street like an urchin, he lit up too. There was laughter in Schuldig's eyes and voice, and it felt to Crawford disconcertingly like he was finding he had a friend. Well, he thought, Eszett had always claimed they were making a new world in which wonders were possible, and the greatest wonder would be not to be a mere piece of their machinery -

"Make sure you do come to London," he said before he could change his mind. "I don't want to walk out of Egypt all alone."

"I'll come," Schuldig said, his eyes wide. "I'll come."

"Naoe and I will be waiting."

Silent yet hopeful, they walked on.


End file.
